


Royal Ghost

by Searece



Series: Memories and Times [29]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gen, Ghost Jazz, Meh, Other, Unfinished/Abandoned fic, can't be bothered to make a good title, old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 03:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11050392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Searece/pseuds/Searece
Summary: Jazz is a ghost.  Prowl, sort of with a group, disturbs the castle he died in.





	Royal Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I was really hesitant to post this. I’m not going to finish this one. I’m proud I wrote so much on it, but I don’t like how I characterized them, especially Prowl, and I’ve just lost interest in it. It’s about ghost Jazz. Here are some notes I wrote for myself if I rewrote it. Maybe don’t start with Jazz, and have the entire story be told from Prowl’s point of view. Don’t write the numbers with his complaining. Why would he have gotten lost in the first place? Why would he have strayed from his group? Prowl probably wouldn’t take the painting, and he also wouldn’t toss things aside, he would gently set them down. He wouldn’t mess with them at all; he’d let someone whose job it is to dig up artefacts do it.
> 
> Some things I imagined happening later… Jazz possessing Prowl while Prowl is cooking around Wheeljack because he’s mad Prowl is doing it all wrong in his opinion. Also, Jazz was a royal/noble Polyhexian who got kidnapped by the Praxian invaders to his land. He got turned into the kitchen maid but ended up doing a lot of different tasks before he died in some traumatic way.

            Jazz watched from the shadows as the intruder carefully delved deeper into the castle. How interesting the stranger was! Jazz hadn’t seen a pair of sensory panels in far too long. Jazz perked up as the stranger took a turn to the section of the castle housing the living quarters. The Polyhexian swiftly followed the intruder and decided something.

            The ghost would show the Praxian that he was there.

            --

            Prowl sighed as he walked through the abandoned castle. He was thoroughly miserable.

  1. He’d gotten lost from his group.
  2. He was cold.
  3. He felt as if he was being watched.



            That last point couldn’t have been possible, right? For starters, he was in the middle of an abandoned castle. Keyword there? Abandoned. Nobody had lived there since… at least before he was born. All the same, Prowl shivered. What if criminals had taken up residence here?

            He drew up his shoulders in determination. If that were the case, he would simply do something about it. He didn’t know exactly what, but he would figure it out. He wasn’t an enforcer for nothing.

            He just wasn’t prepared for the surprise that lay ahead of him.

            --

            Jazz giddily rubbed his servos together, seeing the stranger walk into the ghost’s former room, where he had the most power. He let out a giggle, reaching forward to brush over the mech’s sensory panels. The mech spun around at the sudden draft of air across them, causing Jazz to giggle.

            “What is this place, haunted?” intoned the mech aloud.

            “Yup!” cheerfully responded Jazz even though the other couldn’t see or hear him, “Though I have no idea why you’re here, I sure am grateful!”

            But the Praxian didn’t hear, and instead merely turned around to continue inspecting the room. There wasn’t too much left of the personal items.

            --

            Prowl hummed in interest as he picked at the berth coverings. After the strange brush of air across his sensory panels, he’d taken to exploring the room he’d walked into. He had no idea why, but he felt this particular room was important, as if it held something of relevance to why he was in the castle in the first place.

            A glimpse of faded red caught his optic before his thoughts could continue, and he kneeled to look below the berth. An average sized chest rested underneath it. Prowl pulled the thing out, giving a little huff at the dust briefly clouding his vents. He opened the chest.

            A torn blanket covered the items in the chest. As Prowl lifted the blanket and set it aside, his optics widened at the thing under it.

            A picture, clearly painted but still in very good shape, showed itself to the Praxian. The image on the painting made Prowl gasp.

            A white and blue mech was sitting down, smiling, with his servos crossed peacefully on his lap. The mech had the typical lithe build and audial fins of a Polyhexian, but certain features didn’t match up. Why did the mech have tiny fangs, sharp armor plates, and red optics? Prowl could even see the glassy gleam of a gold visor just above the optics of the mech. The visor seemed retractable, given how it was partly out.

            The Praxian traced over the mech’s face, touch light and careful, as if he were tracing a sacred thing. Whoever this mech was, Prowl wished he could have met him. The last thing he noticed was the mech’s lightly tapered digits, almost delicate in their sharpness. The mech also had heels, a couple inches in height, but spiked and there nonetheless.

            He set the picture in his subspace to be looked at again later, to see if he could find a mark of the artist.

            With a hum, he began to root through more of the chest.

            --

            The ghost watched in dismay as the intruder rooted through the stuff in the red chest, Jazz’s stuff. The Polyhexian panicked slightly as he saw his prized eating utensil collection get tossed to the side, behind the careless mech. That little collection had housed three full sets, mismatched sets, of silverware, and even included a couple of rare sticks ancient Praxians used to eat with. The next thing to get tossed was an eroded knife he’d once used to cut solid energon with.

            The ghost let out a shout of denial, “Please, stop it! You don’t know what you’re doing!” and rushed forward to try to stop the intruder from harming any more of his stuff. Too late he remembered that he was merely an ethereal form, causing the items to simply pass through him.

            A sharp sensation of dread filled Jazz as he pleaded with the oblivious mech, “No! No! Please don’t toss that away! It’s a piece of my armor,” and very nearly collapsed to his knees as the Praxian did just that. As the armor clattered to the ground, fury swelled in the ghost’s spark. It broke like a tiny crystal under a mech’s pede, and Jazz screamed, fists balling up, “You stupid, ignorant creature! Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you! Don’t throw away other people’s stuff, even if they’ve been dead for vorns! They could still be around!” In his tantrum, he didn’t notice how close his servos were waving to the ugly face on his nightstand until a crash made him pause.

            The vase was in pieces on the floor.

            --

            Prowl stared at the suddenly broken vase. Last he’d checked, vases didn’t suddenly crash to the floor. It made him think. What had done that? Nobody else was in the room with him. Were the tales of ghosts real? No, of course they weren’t. The vase was probably just off balance and waiting to fall. It just happened to fall while he was in the room. He forced himself into believing that possibility as he returned his attention to the items in the chest. Seeing a shard of the vase wobble, Prowl suddenly had doubts. He gave a try at speaking aloud as he lifted his servos in submission, “Alright, I’ll stop messing with your stuff. I’ll even put it back, carefully. See?”

            With extra careful movements, the Praxian picked up all of the things he’d ruthlessly tossed to the side.

            A tension he hadn’t even been aware of in the room lifted, as if someone had calmed significantly.

            The near tangible feeling of relief that Prowl felt only increased his new belief in ghosts.

            --

            Jazz sobbed in relief as his possessions were put back where they belonged. All but one of his possessions had been put back. However, he believed the painting would be kept safe, because the Praxian had seemed almost reverent when touching it. He slid closer, curious when the mech murmured something then spoke up.

            “Time to get going and see if I can find my group.”

            Jazz trailed the mech, who eventually got back to the group he’d apparently come in with. The Polyhexian found their conversation very interesting to listen to.

            “Prowl? Oh, thank Primus you’re alright,” exclaimed a dainty red and white medic as he rushed forward to hug the newly-returned member.

            Prowl awkwardly patted him on the back, “It’s good to see you too, First Aid.”

            When the medic pulled away and started fussing over him like he was a sparkling, the rest of the group just laughed and started walking away. They would speak to Prowl when he got done being fussed over.

            --

            By the time that the mechs had gotten back to the castle’s exit, Jazz was dreading their leaving. He’d been enjoying their company even if they couldn’t see him. He had also learned their names and some facts about them all.

            First was Prowl, the white and black Praxian with red and gold detailing who was the reason the group was there in the first place.

            First Aid was the red and white medic with black detailing and was obviously there to patch up any who needed it while they were in the ruins.

            Barricade was a black and purple enforcer and also Prowl’s coworker, giving Jazz the knowledge that Prowl was also an enforcer. Both Prowl and Barricade had four sensory panels, meaning that they were both sire-type Praxians. They also made frequent remarks to each other that Jazz was almost certain referred to their interfacing lives. One in particular remark mentioned that Barricade was having a “dry spell,” to which Prowl had said he would happily help get rid of. The darker Praxian was also functioning as a guard in this adventure.

            Trailbreaker was a quietly hulking Kaonite, mostly black in color with some red, though he had a blue visor and grey face mask. His expression was nigh unreadable except when he retracted his mask. He was also acting as a guard.

            Arcee was a short but stout femme with pink and white colors and red detailing. The Iaconian femme was the language expert of the group; she translated the various runes in the castle into things regular Cybertronians could read and understand.

            Prowl, First Aid, Barricade, Trailbreaker, and Arcee made five mecha in total unless he was forgetting someone. Jazz gave a little chirp of happiness when he realized he hadn’t missed anyone. Now, however, they were all leaving him. It made him sad because there were no other ghosts or spirits to talk to, not even hostile ones.

            With an effortless glide, he stepped up the rubble to perch delicately on the remains of a section of wall. “Goodbye,” he murmured to himself, surprised to see the Praxian Prowl turn back after a moment.

            “We will come back soon,” were the whispered words on the wind, giving Jazz hope for when they returned, before Prowl continued on his way.

            --

            With a sigh, Prowl stood from his berth to grab a cloth from the stand he owned. He dipped the cloth into his fine-quality wax and began smearing it over his plating. He had a date tonight and wanted to look good for it. He’d been invited out to lunch by a pair of femme twins named Stepper and Meister. The twins held a faint resemblance toward the mech whose picture he’d found in the castle ruins, but Polyhexians often bore resemblance to other Polyhexians.

            That was also how he had guessed that the white and ice blue mech was (or had been, at least) also a Polyhexian. Thinking about that mech also reminded Prowl of the picture. Glancing to it in its place upon his berthroom wall, he noticed not for the first time that it looked out of place on his decoration-less walls.

            A sudden comm. had him breaking his focus from the picture to answer the call. After a brief chat with his coworker Barricade, he continued to get ready, wanting to make sure he was as prepared as he could get.

            --

            After the date with the twins, Prowl was happily making plans to go back to the castle that he’d been to two weeks prior. As he chatted on a subset of the infonet, he briefly glanced up. “Don’t worry,” he told it, “I’m coming back soon and can’t wait.”

            The picture didn’t respond, though he didn’t expect it to. He did, however, like how the mech was smiling, a true, almost carefree quirk of lips angled upward. The lips looked soft and inviting, and if the personality was as beautiful as his unusual looks, anyone would be lucky to have him. But since the mech was dead, he could only fantasize.

            Repeated “pings” startled him out of his thoughts and when he looked down, there was one message from each of his exploration team. Each asked where he was. Apparently he’d been thinking for half an hour and they were starting to get worried. He sent them a message back saying that he was fine and not to worry. With a sigh, he warded off their questions about what he was doing as he tried to redirect the conversation.

            Eventually they decided to keep asking later, which Prowl was grateful for because he didn’t want to admit to fantasizing about a mech who had lived hundreds or thousands of years ago. Frankly, that was just embarrassing (or it would be, if it happened).

            Smiling at the thought, he shook his helm at their persistence. While annoying at times, he wouldn’t change it even if he could.

            --

            Jazz was even more bored than usual. The reason? Prowl still hadn’t returned and three weeks had passed! Sure, he hadn’t expected the Praxian to come back the very next day, but wasn’t a three-week wait more than enough time to get back?

            He didn’t think that Prowl’s work would keep him so busy that he couldn’t come back in three weeks. He didn’t know how much Prowl worked, but it couldn’t have been that much, right?

            “So bored!” he whined to himself. He supposed he could explore, but he’d already memorized the castle lands while he was alive.

            Maybe something had changed? Jazz hadn’t visited the southern lands in quite a while, after all, but if he ventured out, he could miss Prowl’s return and then he’d be very upset!

            He decided to set out anyway with how paranoid he was getting.

            He really didn’t want another strange ghost wandering on his territory.

            Usually ghosts and spirits could never move from the territory where they died, but some figured out how to move elsewhere. The last ghost that had moved onto his territory had been a malicious sparkeater of sorts and had actually been quite informative about some concepts Jazz had been confused over. He’d forgotten which concepts they had exactly been, but he knew he could still do the tricks he’d inadvertently been shown. Nonetheless, he’d driven off the spirit with a vengeance and a triumphant shout afterward. He’d also nearly shouted and jumped for joy at successfully defending himself.

            Once he reached the southern edge, he looked around and stretched out all of his senses: EM field, spark energy, mental awareness. Venting out softly, not that he needed to, he began his route around the border of the land. Occasionally (often, in other words) he touched along the plants and stones and was halfway to feeling alive again.

            He could touch the inanimate objects because that was all they were—dead things in the sense that they had no spark and held no sapience. Though plants held no sapience, which is that they couldn’t think for themselves, Jazz fully believed that they felt something akin to emotions. They were at least affected by the emotions of mecha and ghosts because Jazz had noticed that they weren’t nearly as vibrant after an extended or repeated time near unhappy people.

            The Polyhexian had discovered this while he was alive but that didn’t matter. He still enjoyed thinking about how fascinating it was.

            He grinned, letting out a cheery laugh despite his troubles. Harmonically he hummed and sang, sitting at the base of one of the largest trees in the glade he’d just entered. As his voice came out, so did the animals he’d sensed. They approached him without fear.

            Unlike most mecha, animals could see spirits and sense whether they were good or evil. As Jazz was good, they were attracted to his singing and all came willingly to him. It made him happy briefly before he finished his song, proclaimed them the perfect audience, and continued on his way back to checking his territory. He headed back to the castle after not finding anything too terrible. The only bad thing he’d found was the growth of a poisonous plant, but he supposed it wasn’t all that important.

            What was important was that he get back to his home as soon as possible and make sure his room was still untouched. If anything was amiss, he’d know a live mecha had touched his stuff as touching a ghost’s living possessions was disconcerting for other “magical” creatures to do. He didn’t know why but thought that it must have something to do with the change of spark energy in a ghost’s field when they died. It really was very strange.

            When he finally got back to his room, he discovered that nothing had been messed with.

            Nothing at all.

            Jazz wasn’t sure whether to feel happy or disappointed: happy simply because his stuff hadn’t been touched or disappointed because that was one less chance of Prowl being there.

            Oh, well, there was still the possibility that Prowl simply hadn’t gotten to the slave’s quarters yet.

            He continued to wander through the castle (going through walls and doors and such because, well, he was a ghost and they didn’t quite apply to him.)

            Wandering to a set of large, embellished double doors, he froze at the sight of them and shook as memories started to overwhelm him. He dropped to his knees in fright, clutching his helm.

            Not again! This was why he never came to this hallway of the castle. He’d been dragged here too many times in his living life to ever feel safe enough to pass here again.

            He screamed, and the castle shook.

            --

            The entire group froze as a sound reached their audials. It was tortured, and very, very loud. It was excruciating to listen to. It was even more difficult for the two Praxians of the group to bear it considering their the sensory panels on their backs picked up much more than simply the audio feed.

            They cringed, nearly doubling over in pain as they clutched their helms. When the screams finally stopped, they slowly looked up.

            The optics of their companions questioned them, wondering what to do.

            “We need to investigate the sound,” quietly stated Prowl as he glanced around.

            “If you think so, Prowl,” murmured Barricade, standing up slowly, glancing around nervously.

            “Let’s get going,” he commanded firmly when the rest of his company nodded their consent tentatively. He started off in the direction the scream had seemed to come from, from the central corridor, possibly, or even the court room. They had to take a few detours because of unstable passageways, but another tortured scream gave them reason to hurry.

            Somewhat cautiously, they walked to the ornate doors whose true beauty had faded with time. At one point the doors may have been crafted with stone overlaid with malachite, a favorite Praxian metal, but now they were hardly even husks of themselves, so eroded with age. Even so daunted, they pushed the doors open and peered around for the source of that awful sound.

            A whimper came from one of the far corners, the source of which was hidden behind an unidentifiable object. They were sure they heard words being spoken, but they were mumbled and blurred.

            Even Arcee, the language specialist they’d brought with them, couldn’t make them out.

            Tentatively, Prowl whistled, a unique, instinctive ability only Praxians possessed, made for calming frightened younglings. Everyone else, even his partner Barricade, was surprised when he made that sound, mainly because the mech never seemed interested in calming others. That for him to do so now was shocking and they wondered what had changed him so.

            At the whistle, the crying and sobbed words halted. They heard and saw nothing for a minute. Then, a white helm peeked over the former chair. Those red optics grew wide just before an amber visor snapped over them soundlessly. Prowl was struck with a sense of recognition so great he swore his spark stopped for the briefest of moments. Though he only knew the mech from that painting in his room, he wanted to chat with him as if they were old friends.

            He kept whistling and hoped the mech would calm enough so they could approach him. The mech seemed to get even more fearful and stood up while backing away as quickly as he could. As chasing after him would be rather useless, Prowl didn’t give chase no matter how much he wanted to. He would leave that up to his not-as-smart partner, who began stepping forward slowly though Prowl had no idea why. The moment Barricade tried to speak, however, the mech turned and darted away while speaking what sounded like gibberish. Arcee immediately recorded the sounds, recognizing them as ancient high Praxian. Watching, they frowned in worry as the mech ran straight for the smaller set of side doors in the room. It seemed as if the mech would run into them, but instead of colliding with the wall, he vanished through them with nothing more than a ripple through his form.

            Shock froze them, planting their frames down where they stood. None of them had an idea of what to say, if anything would be right for the situation.

            “That’s not possible,” eventually breathed First Aid, “Nothing can just vanish through walls like that.”

            “What could it have been, though?” distractedly asked Arcee, her words distinctly clear even as he processor worked to decipher the stranger’s glyphs. The results were already proving strange.

            “The legend just might be true,” muttered Barricade, the one who had started the whole mess with trying to talk to the stranger.

            “What legend?” Trailbreaker asked curiously. Prowl, too, was staring at his partner. As Prowl and Barricade were both Praxians with close frame-builds, one might assume at first glance that they grew up together and heard the same stories as a sparkling. That was not true as they had actually grown up in different cities in Praxus, Barricade in Praxus City and Prowl in Archway, with slightly different customs and many different legends. All in all, that Prowl hadn’t heard many tales about the castle was unsurprising.

            “It’s an old legend, one dating back to the time when Praxus still had emperors,” stated Barricade, surprising the rest of the group. It was well-known that Praxus had once had emperors and governed itself instead of letting the High Council and the Senate dictate what it did, but to have any legends from that time still circulating was surprising. “It says that there’s a being haunting the castle, a fearsome ghost that harms unwary explorers of the castle. Legend says that the mech died in tormented agony, though not specifically from what.”

            The rest of the group shivered at the images their processors conjured up.

            “But there’s no such thing as ghosts,” protested Arcee, “Their existence just wouldn’t make any sense!”

            “I’m just telling you what the legend says,” snapped Barricade.

            “And this seems to match it,” interrupted Prowl, “But if the legend is true, then why did the ‘ghost’ seem scared?”

            The question startled the others into silence as they contemplated it.

            “Well,” spoke up Trailbreaker, “maybe the legend isn’t entirely true. After all, legends do change over the course of time.”

            “You’re right,” conceded Barricade, “Maybe the ghost isn’t all that bad.”

            “But we don’t know that for certain, do we?” piped up First Aid somewhat fearfully as he glanced around.

            “That’s true, but we’ll just need to be extra careful if we continue,” Barricade as he laid a servo on the other’s shoulder.

            “Prowl?” Arcee asked, “What do you think?” Everyone else turned to the mostly-silent mech to await his response.

            The white and black Praxian vented out softly. When he spoke, it wasn’t anything that seemed to be related to their current discussion, “On the first time we came here, do you all remember how I got lost?”

            They nodded, “But what does that have to do with anything?”

            “I found a living quarters’ section of the castle, at least the servants’ or slaves’ quarters, and I entered a room, I explored and found a chest tucked away under a berth.”

            “You opened the chest and messed with its contents, didn’t you?” groaned Barricade, wishing his partner had known better.

            “Ah, yes,” blushed Prowl, embarrassed at his unintentional mistake. He hadn’t known ghosts were real and that opening a chest would anger one!

            “Did anything… strange happen while you rifled through its contents?” Barricade hoped not. If it had, Prowl had likely angered the spirit of the owner of those possessions, from what he’d heard.

            Prowl hesitated, “Yes, an old vase fell from its podium and shattered from the fall. I continued to search the chest’s contents and the pieces of the vase rattled.”

            “That… can’t be good,” Arcee muttered.

            “I also took a well-preserved painting from the very top of the chest,” continued Prowl, not looking at the others.

            “Where is it now?” asked Barricade with a cringe. So far this definitely sounded like a ghost.

            “In my room on my wall where I can easily see it from my berth.”

            Barricade frowned. “Well, I can tell you won’t be taking it down?”

            “No.” Prowl looked warily at Barricade, not wanting to have to take down or destroy the painting.

            He got the feeling that keeping the painting might anger or attract the spirit to him, but he wanted to keep it, even though he would never meet the dead mech. He sighed as Barricade began speaking again.

            “Since when did you become an expert on ghosts?” Prowl interrupted him as the companions kept silent.

            “It’s an easy thing to, ah, lecture on if you’ve grown up around it, paid attention to it, and researched it,” muttered the mech, his sensory panels flicking down.

            “Oh, joy, so I get to hear how many more of your delightful speeches about ghosts and their habits?” Prowl’s voice was laden thick with sarcasm.

            “Yes, unless you feel like actually listening to my advice?”

            “Now, since when have I ever done that?”

            “Plenty of times.”

            “Funny, I don’t remember any.”

            “Hah, you just chose to forget ‘em.”

            “Mechs,” interrupted Arcee, wishing they’d hush so she could translate the “ghost’s” words, “At least try to focus on something productive, please!” Thanks to their bickering, she’d only gotten a few basic words translated because ancient high Praxian was unnecessarily complex in her opinion. Nonetheless, she’d learned it in spite of the difficulties she’d faced.

            Prowl and Barricade tossed each other another glare while they examined the room they were in.


End file.
